


Never Again

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea





	Never Again

I have been employed in my position for five years now, and, as far as employers are concerned, I have never been more content. Mr. Wooster is kind and generous, providing me with every luxury I could wish for. As a child, I had taken cold water baths and struggled with oil lamps; now; electricity is considered a necessity and not a luxury, I find my room outfitted with fine linen bedclothes, and quite often he insists that I partake in what a servant has no right to; the fine wines, the Turkish cigarettes, and the time and freedom to enjoy these.

His is a friendly, gentle nature, giving of himself while asking nothing in return, which is why I double my efforts to serve him to the best of my abilities. His comfort must be seen to at all times, his life must run seamlessly, for then, I win his smile, his sigh of content, his praise. I must confess that I had come to live for this, for him. Could anyone have faulted me for my desire? So great is his charm that Mr. Wooster left in his wake many noble born women, desirous of his vows of marriage. For a man of my station and vices, there was no hope. Within hours, I was smitten, within days, utterly lost, and as years passed, my devotion had grown to a form of secretive, furtive worship. I foolishly, devoutly loved that which I could not have, the man I must keep at arm’s length. If he were to know, I risked social ruin and imprisonment, but what I feared more that that was risking that look I would surely see in his eyes; betrayal, alarm, disgust, the stony resolve that I would never be allowed to stay close by his side again. So many times I have wanted to touch him, to caress his bare skin, to let my lips brush against his hair, to take more than I am entitled to; and yet, this fear prevents those actions. It aches, knowing that I cannot touch him. It aches, to have what I want more than anything so near, yet forbidden to me.

The life of a valet has allowed me to escape marriage myself without comment. Although I have avoided a lifestyle which I am not suited to, that which I lead has its blessings and curses as two sides of a coin. I tend to Mr. Wooster and, on occasion, his friends, when in need of counsel. I mingle among the finely attired young men of blue blood, close enough to study every feature, both physical and mental, yet forbidden to touch, to even hint of the thoughts which I truly entertain.

In the dark of the night, I often imagine a world in which I could take what I desire instead of the hasty thanks and crumpled banknotes the young men usually repay my services with. Mr. Wooster often says that my name is legend among the members of the Drones Club, and in this, he is quite correct, each member owing me a favor or two in turn. I imagine a world in which I am free to collect those favors, every young gentleman bent to my will. The surly, brutish ones I would gently break, splaying them under me to fuck into a whimpering submission. The young, virginal Drones would need special attention; I would hold them close, their backs to my belly, stroking their shaking, pale bodies until such pleasure overtook them that they would gaze at me, wide eyed, and willing to do my bidding. Mr. Potter-Pirbright, so familiar with theater life, would be well practiced, and could take me all the way down his tight throat and swallow-

This was the thought that would make my heart pound fiercely, and put me over the edge, unless I sternly pulled myself back. For the greater treasure was Mr. Wooster, and it was his image I wished to brood on when I reached my cusp. Yet… such sordid fantasies were no place for my master. I had tried to place him in them, and felt ashamed, horrified by what I was about to do. He inhibits his own fantasies, those in which we are alone, and I approach him with a bowed head and shaking hands, begging to cherish him as he deserves. I realized that I had to do something to curb my appetite, to keep Mr. Wooster safe from myself, and, in turn, to keep him as my own.

In the bustling theater district of New York City, there stands a church to the west of Broadway, although it has ceased to be a house of worship long before I was born. It now stands as a Turkish bath, catering to men of moderate to substantial means, men who seek to practice the vice of seeking the company of other men. The admission of one dollar discourages the rough elements, as well as the hustlers, who can readily ply their trade on the street without the competition of willing partners or the cumbersome matter of asking a naked man for money. This particular bath was also discreet, its management known to deter men who were not interested in the advances of those of their kind, and rumored to be owned by a man with ties to the police, making it less likely to be raided. It was these facts, gathered over time by a keen ear and indirect questions, which led me to settle on this location, one far from my native London, as an extra precaution.

Inside, once a ticket was purchased, one is issued a towel and dressing room in which to disrobe. Once nude, rank disappears; a valet is no different than a millionaire. Twice I visited, lurking in the steam baths and hot tubs, watching the behavior of the men around me. Touches lingered, couples pressed close to kiss, in the dark, steamy hallway between the sauna and dressing rooms, strangers coupled as voyeurs watched. Sometimes they would make it to their dressing rooms to commence their lovemaking, often, they would not, and so I watched, entranced. This would be the relief I so sorely needed. This would keep Mr. Wooster from knowing, from seeing the lust built up inside of me, kindled so that it shone from my eyes when I regarded him, for I must keep him, at any cost.

That evening, when I had lied to my beloved master about my whereabouts, I stepped out of the cubby-like dressing stall into the dank, gas lit steam room, my towel loose around my waist. Tentatively, I let the towel fall, and regarded my prospects. Three rough men, two couples, and, surely, an angel.

His golden hair had just the suggestion of a curl, and his eyes were pale, as was his skin. Those pale eyes met mine, and a thrill coursed through my chest as he smiled at me. Having watched the other men during my prior visits, I knew how to proceed. I quick gesture of my hand indicated my wants, and I was astounded to find the young man suddenly at my side, pressing his lips to mine, his hands on my flanks, and, suddenly and without a word, on his knees to service me.

Oh, but he was lovely. His mouth and tongue moved in a practiced rhythm, and such sweet little sounds came from those soft, pink lips. I could barely keep standing, and found myself bracing the damp, carved limestone wall behind me. A glance down revealed slightly tousled waves, so like Mr. Wooster’s, and yet his nose was softer, not quite so finely carved. His shoulders as well were quite willowy, and I desperately conjured images of Mr. Wooster in his bath to superimpose over this moment, rutting cruelly into his throat, whispering his name against the noise of running water, steam valves, and distant voices.

When I opened my eyes, one of the rough men faced me, his want making his eyes gleam. No words were spoken as he fondled my boy, as he leaned over him to grasp my jaw and pull me into a deep kiss. A sharp sound, then, as his palm came down on my boy’s buttock, and he moaned around me, raising his rear for the newcomer, gasping as he was penetrated, never abandoning his efforts on my behalf.

I watched him through half lidded eyes, as the rough man nipped at my lips, pinched at my flesh. My boy was just a tool for him, a way for him to fuck me indirectly, to be used up and tossed aside. I watched him moan and writhe, and, no matter how exquisite he was, I knew then that he could not do half of what Mr. Wooster does to me with a single glance. I was no different to him than any other man, and he no different to me than any of the Drones.

We were both forgotten and tossed aside once his moment had passed, and I was eternally grateful. I stumbled hastily back to my cubby and dressed. Ten minutes later, I was walking down the avenue at a brisk pace, my fists clutched in frustration, and my eyes lowered in shame.

When I arrived at the flat, I was greeted by a melancholy tune as Mr. Wooster sat at the piano, brooding. His face was crumpled into a troubled expression, and for a moment I feared that my secret had been revealed.

“Sir?” I managed, as I hung my hat, and strode to the sideboard to prepare him a drink.

“Ah, Jeeves.” He smiled at me, then, a weak, sweet smile, yet still utterly disarming. “Good to have you back so early, old top. Literary circle not too exciting tonight?”

“I fear not, sir.” The lie gnawed at me, making my stomach sour. “Sir, what is troubling you?” I managed, steeling myself for the worst.

His mouth quirked into a frown and he spun around on the piano bench to face me. “It’s George, you see. He’s gone and put his foot in his mouth again, and it seems like the wedding bells won’t be ringing out next week after all.”

Relief flooded my system, a cooling balm on my nerves. “Is that so, sir?” I asked, confident in my ability to sort whatever mess his foolish friend had created.

“It is, Jeeves, it is.” Mr. Wooster sighed again, and his fingers idly produced a few minor chords. “It’s just- oh, nevermind.” He sighed.

“Sir?”

His expression was shy and sad for the split second that I caught his eyes. “It’s just that, well, It hardly seems fair, you know. George was getting married, and she’s perfect for him, you’ll agree, and it’s always that sort that goes and mucks things up. So many chaps I know do that. If I had someone I loved, who loved me, well… well, I’d be careful. I wouldn’t go chasing after chorus girls. I wouldn’t ever let them go.”

In all of my life, I have never felt more ashamed, more disgusted by myself, more unworthy of the man before me. Never again, I vowed. Even if I may never touch him, I could not live with myself if I did not live up to his standards.

“I am quite certain that I might find a way to affect a solution, sir.” I managed.

He brightened, pulling himself upwards from his slumped position, and beamed at me. “Oh, Jeeves.” He sighed. “I knew that you would rally ‘round. You are truly a marvel among men.”

His confidence in me was complete, and I felt sickened. Never again, I scolded myself, with a firmly set jaw. Never again.


End file.
